Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,82

as an agent of the Black Claw.

While he studied the portrait by candlelight, the duchesse poured two glasses of a golden liqueur with a heady aroma. When he heard the clink of crystal and smelled the odour of henbane the Alchemist's nostrils flared and a gleam of longing

briefly lit up his steely grey eyes, while the tip of a rosy tongue licked at his lips. But he retained control of himself, succeeded in masking a desire that was becoming a need and, with a steady hand, accepted — casually, without taking his eyes off the canvas — the glass held out to him. He dipped his bloodless lips in the liqueur and contained the shiver of pleasure that obliged him to shut his eyes.

'You will soon have to find me some more of this delicious henbane from Lorraine,' said madame de Chevreuse.

'Certainly, madame.'

'Will you tell me, someday, who your supplier is?'

'Madame, whatever would become of a master of magic who gave away his secrets?'

She smiled, rose and took several paces about the room as she gazed incuriously at the books of magic and various alchemical and esoteric objects that were on display.

Then she asked:

'So? What do you think of my find? I can assure you that this portrait is most faithful.'

The Alchemist pursed his lips.

'Precisely, madame. This young woman is far too pretty. She won't fool anyone.'

The duchesse was expecting this reaction and had prepared a visual effect. Smiling, she showed him a small piece of carton shaped like a theatre mask, which she placed upon the portrait.

'And now, master?'

The master of magic looked again at the painting and could not prevent a start of surprise.

'Admirable ... !' he admitted. Then a shadow of doubt passed over his face. 'But her size? Her figure?'

'They are a perfect match in every respect,' madame de Chevreuse reassured him.

'As is her hair . . . And where is this marvel hiding?'

'She has been staying here, in my home, for several days now. I will present her to you during the course of a dinner I am hosting.'

'But will she be capable of—'

'I will answer for her.'

'On condition that she accepts.'

'How can one refuse a queen?'

The Alchemist gave one of his rare smiles, which always seemed cruel.

'Yes, of course . . .' he said. 'But it will still require some scheming on your part to place your protegee in the queen's entourage. How do you hope to accomplish that?'

'Through the marquis,' replied the duchesse with a hint of annoyance. 'Or through my husband the duc. We'll see.'

'Time is running short, madame. If all is not ready in time for your great ball at Dampierre . . .'

'I know it all too well, monsieur. All too well . . . Now, a little more henbane?'

Leprat had already been waiting for an hour. With an ordinary sword at his side, he was wearing Gueret's clothing and jewellery, including a ring adorned with a handsome opaline stone that he had slipped on his left ring finger. He had of course put away his ivory rapier and the Blades' steel signet ring, along with anything that might compromise his false identity. He hoped it would suffice. For although he had no doubt that the duchesse de Chevreuse was not personally acquainted with Gueret, this was perhaps not the case for all those who surrounded her and served her.

Once again, he gazed about the tavern's taproom. Sitting at the end of a table, he did not conceal the opaline on his ring finger but nor did he flash it about, to avoid trouble. While The Bronze Glaive was no cutthroats' den, it was not the most reputable of places. Located outside the faubourg Saint-Jacques, less than a quarter of an hour's walk from the inn where Gueret had been lodging, the establishment was exempt from the taxes and regulations that applied in Paris. Wine was cheaper here and they continued serving it after curfew every evening of the week, until midnight.

Every evening of the week, that is, except the previous evening, when the owner, having gone to Tours to bury a dead relative, had closed the tavern. Leprat had discovered this by listening to a conversation between two regulars. It

explained, at least, why Gueret had returned to the inn earlier than expected and surprised Agnes and Marciac in his bedchamber. This extraordinary closure had indirectly killed him.

The difference between life and death often depends on the tiniest things, Leprat mused.

Absentmindedly toying with the opaline that served as his recognition